Falling Apart
by tricks-meuler
Summary: Booth and Brennan deal with life and how the good things, the stable things, sometimes deteriorate. Please read and review. Mature language and themes.
1. Chapter 1

Mmm …. K, so this is what happens at one o'clock in the morning when I have a little temper tantrum because I'm really frustrated and can't write anything. Besides, sometimes I think that we need to re-evaluate how we're convinced that certain characters think. Hope you find it at least a little enjoyable.

* * *

**Falling Apart**

You know that it's fun and a half. You wanna fuck her hard like she's a bitch but she's a fragile soul and she don't deserve shit. And you moan and you groan and you ache and drive, drive, drive so you don't do anything stupid and all you want is to make things right. But it'll never be right because you'll never trust yourself again and she just won't understand because you can't bring yourself to face the look on her face if you tell her the truth. So everything that you've worked to build is just going to crumble away, and everything that you've worked so hard to fix over the last two weeks is going to melt to hell.

You pull the woman up by the hand and she looks surprised by the common courtesy and you hand her the bills and she looks too much like her and your going to start to cry. You sissy, don't let the stranger see you cry. You need comfort but the only person who can do that is the one woman that you're petrified to see.

So sneak away to the cold comfort of your hollow, empty house and try to write some of that prose shit so that you can be like your one true love lost.

* * *

So this might get continued if it's continuation suddenly occurs to me or if I get really strong angsty urges again. 


	2. Chapter 2

So this is the realized second chapter, I hope that you guys like it. The plot is still working itself out in my brain a little so there are only limited revelations in this chapter : P.

Any reviews are wonderful (and by wonderful I mean exciting and phenomenal) but signed reviews are even more lovely, just so that I can clear up certain comments and everyone can get more out of the story.

Thanks and enjoy.

* * *

You drive down the street in the dead of the night. Jerky motions, thoughts erratic; all of your being focused on his irrational behaviour. And suddenly there he is and you slam on the brakes and you think you're hallucinating. But goddamnit if that Catholic son of a bitch isn't coming out of a fucking whorehouse. The price is dirt cheap and there's no protection required. Lying, cheating FBI agent participating in illicit activity; just one more thing to add to the list of inconsistencies.

You may both be fucked up but you're still his best friend so you pull over and command him through the passenger door. He's a wreck, his shoulders slump, his eyes are red, his jaw is clenched like it's the safety on his gun. You stare in silence, make up your mind and drive off in the same direction that you were headed in the sixty seconds before your epiphany. His jaw stays clenched the whole ride there so you let the silence permeate your vehicle.

Pull into your parking spot. "Get out." You order calmly. He shakes his head vehemently. You repeat but get no response so you stalk around to his side, open his door, grip his wrist firmly and without give, pull him roughly towards you and march him up on to your apartment. It's only on your doorstep as you fumble with your keys that you feel the fresh slices on the underside of his wrist. He looks away, unwilling to meet your eyes as you glare from the deep angry red lines that mar his flawless, non-tattooed wrist to his face; and back again.

You watch his jaw clench some more and sigh. You drag him inside and firmly tell him that he's staying here and that everything, and it is _everything_ that you stress, will be dealt with tomorrow. The only response that you get is another clench of the jaw. So you brusquely usher him – still gripping his wrist – to your bedroom where you remove his shoes and jacket, knowing that he won't do these things for himself. Not in this state. You leave him to what you hope will be some much needed sleep and plant yourself on the couch because you'll be damned if he escapes into the cold, helpless night.

Since the moment that he first set eyes on you, his jaw has not slackened.

* * *

See that beautiful violet (would you call that violet?) button? It wants you to touch it. Please. pouts 


	3. Chapter 3

I'm really sorry that this took so long, but I _really_ don't like this chapter. It just wouldn't write. I've had the next chapter written for a little over a week, so it should be up by either later today or the day after tomorrow. I would also like to apologize in advance in case I offend anyone in this chapter with the references to Catholicism. It's nothing personal, I just felt that it helped show how much he is falling apart. Haha, completely accidental. Falling Apart 3

* * *

Idiot. Fuckhead. Wanker. Pussy. Cocksucker. Worthless piece of shit. With each insult, with each curse, you punch her pillow as hard as you can. With each punch, insult and curse, you grow a little weaker. Exhausted from your short temper tantrum and a week of mild insomnia, you flop back onto the bed. There is simply no way around it; being stupid enough to get caught (by the one woman whose thrall you worship, no less) makes the urge to swallow a full fucking bottle of codeine threes increase more than three-fold.

You actually almost find it funny that there was once a time when your stuck up Catholic sensibilities kept you from things like self-mutilation and suicidal thoughts. Lately you only ever go to church when you have Parker on a Sunday, and the only times you ever pray are for Parker too. Your hardy Catholic mother is probably starting to worry because she hasn't heard from you in a week.

From your mother your mind jumps to the last time that she worried about you, really worried. Those were the days of murder and honour. Ha, honour. Try though you might, you've never truly convinced yourself that your military services were, in fact honourable. Any explanation of how killing fathers and children and mothers and friends could possibly be remotely moral would be, for lack of a better term, helpful.

But regardless of your family oriented conscience, what bothers you more than your mother worrying about you is knowing that your beloved partner is worrying about you. Trying so hard when you're giving up on yourself like the mother-fucking fuck-face that you are. And you can't get enough of her concern. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. So fucking tired. Fuck. Fuck. Fu…

* * *

So thanks for reading and please, please, please review. 


	4. Chapter 4

Just like I promised … for a change. And I apologize if I haven't responded to reviews yet. It **will** happen. Hope you enjoy.

* * *

Falling Apart 4

You wake up to your heart beating far too quickly. It's been awhile since you had that particular recurring nightmare, sorry, memory. It seems that every time your unconscious recognizes that you're forgetting the feeling of being forced to do something so completely against your own principles, it dredges up that particular memory. That particular foster dad, that unwanted opening zipper, being yanked down to your knees. But as soon as your convinced that you're no longer just sixteen, you run silently to check on your begrudging visitor.

The clock on your bedside table that reads 5:49 illuminates his sleeping face and he looks more peaceful than you've seen him in weeks. Relieved, you creep back to the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee, knowing that you won't be able to sleep, not now.

It's 7:58 and you're on your fourth cup of tea after three cups of coffee, and only now have you just regained the capability to think rationally. You're so glad that he's been sleeping this whole time, you even skipped your shower so that you wouldn't be too loud and you had cold cereal so that he wouldn't be woken up by the smell of hot weekend breakfast. You pull out your laptop because your new deadline is creeping up and you get the odd gut feeling that you won't be getting much work done as soon as Booth wakes up. You pull up the music player and Aimee Mann slips softly out of your speakers.

You're starting to get stressed out because your rational brain has yet to explain the way that Booth has been acting recently, or last night's apparent break-down. That feeling of impending doom that preceeds the involvement of Sweets has been hanging over your head like a storm cloud since that incident with the Venezuelan militant sniper. Two lines of the wafting song seem to unconsciously ring true:

"Hate the sinner but love the sin

Let me be your heroin"

Thing is, you've got a funny feeling that he thinks that he's the sinner. Begging the question: what's the sin.


End file.
